In Germany Before the War
by Stephane Richer
Summary: I'm looking at the river but I'm thinking of the sea.


In Germany Before The War

Disclaimer: I own neither Eiichiro Oda's _One __Piece_ nor Randy Newman's "In Germany Before the War"

It was so far inland, one might wonder if it was the absolute centre of the continent. One could get there by following a long, tranquil, but uphill-both-ways river or the network small highways beset with bandits-but one way was too lengthy and difficult, and the other was treacherous and frightening. Of course, the sparsely-populated locals frequented the restaurant, but there were only so many that could afford to pay the asking price.

He never turned anyone away, though, especially those who had travelled from afar. They said it was his one giant flaw, they said that if he kept it up the restaurant would go under.

It didn't.

Of course, these people had no idea of the multiple fortunes the proprietor had saved from his earlier life, a life he would now very much like to forget, but one that kept him awake at all hours, and one that could be the only thing he wedged in between himself and the elaborate dishes that he created.

It was so far inland, so far that it reminded him of the sea every day, every moment. The ache in his heart grew and grew until he thought he or it might explode, and sometimes he lay in bed at night paralyzed from pain and choking emotion, staring at the ceiling until he almost believed it was a particular ship and the wind around him had become the waves. And sometimes it worked, and his heartbeat went back down to normal and he rolled over on his side and smoked a cigarette, the smell of which concealed the true setting.

They all said his best meals were fish or citrus dishes. He never had an explanation (never had an explanation for anything, really) and never seemed to do anything extra special, yet...there was just something intangible about the tangerine sorbet versus the pineapple, the tuna versus the beef. It tasted nostalgic, for some reason, but those foods were not native to this area; most of the people had never even heard of these dishes let alone tasted them. And yet, he had marinated them with memories, roasted them with sadness and longing.

Sometimes at night he went out to look at the river.

He sat on the bank, smoking a cigarette, smoke drifting over the water slowly and languidly. He imagined distant foghorns in the cold autumn breeze, letting it ruffle his unkempt hair. He could smell a faint trace of salt, sometimes, too. Maybe that was the tears. He could not distinguish the two, never could.

He hated sleeping, hated it with all his heart. He'd go weeks without it, cooking up a storm until he collapsed to be found by a waiter, knife still in hand yet skin pale and uncut. He'd shake fitfully for a few days calling out a name, the same name every time, letting the wind rip it from his lips. The nicotine withdrawal would eventually be too much for his body and he'd wake up, every time, and smoke a whole pack in ten minutes and then go and demand another. He had a damn lot of nerve sometimes. But the food was worth it.

No one ever dared to ask him about what he was hiding and what he had left behind. A mixture of fear and admiration prevented that, and he would never let anyone within five arms' lengths. He was too secretive, too lonely, too isolated-even if it had been of the self-imposed variety. Several old ladies tried half-heartedly to fix him up with their lovely young daughters; he politely declined each time. "You know, I would have taken you for a ladies' man if I didn't know you any better," one said to him.

He just laughed slowly and bitterly. "Yeah, you could say I was one once."

Once.

Once he was a ladies' man, with eyes that lit up at new experiences and new people and new opportunities and new food. Once, he was a warrior of the seas, one who kicked with all the voracity a spinning top made of blades. Once, he was a pirate, and a damn good one. Once, he had a lover, a man who was both just like him and not like him at all. Once, there was a sea around him rocking the boat instead of land that never moved, made him sick from all the stillness.

When he slept, when he fell unconscious, he dreamed, and that was why he avoided it, always. He needed to forget, wanted so desperately for it to return. He dreamed of a green-haired swordsman asleep in his arms, strong shoulders and lightly twitching feet, the scar over one eye he always traced over after they made love, rocking bodies inside a rocking ship, the warm feeling of companionship all around them like a giant oven.

Maybe he should have known he'd be burned to a crisp and taken out eventually, chewed up by the world. He might have done it anyway. No. No maybes. Would have.

He stared at the river, narrowing his visible eye. Grey clouds and mist surrounded him; there was nothing but him and the water below, so near. So beautiful. He closed his eyes and imagined he was home again, among people who no longer existed, in a ship that lay broken on the bottom of the sea.


End file.
